Nepali Kalasahitya Dot Com Pratishthan

Story:


Diwakar Subedi

Advertence

Whenever asked, when does an individual lose his advertence, answer varies from person to person. Some may reply - whenever one gets angry, when becomes lonely, when not being loved, or when gets addicted to something, and so on. Today I am going to narrate a true story of mine, the losing of my advertency. To this day, no one has been able to give a logical answer to the question of why I lost my advertence, my consciousness. On the contrary, I have been insulted saying, 'Don't pester me.' No matter how calm a person is, all of a sudden, he loses his temper. Maybe you can answer it rationally! I bet you're not an individual as such.
"Dashain nai ho ki yo mero Dasha, Tauko khayeko… ..." Yogeshwar Amatya was convulsing like a patient of constipation on the radio. The voice was ringing in my ears. Inquisitiveness was hovering in my mind. Dashain was already at the door. The streets of the capital seemed terribly silent as if drowned in the grief of someone's death. The blacktopped roads were lonely. Occasionally, pedestrians would walk on the sidewalks. The cars were seen rarely on the roads. An alarm that rings in a stranger’s room becomes a daily schedule. The number of heads were less at home and more at the bus park. It seemed that the bus park was showing its identity alike that of procession at the wedding. Afterall, who doesn't want to go home during great festival, Dashain?
Whenever someone enters the village from the city, the village begins to see him strangely. The buds of hope begin to sprout as soon as they step in it. Time runs out to reveal the wonderful secrets of his dreams. Message reaches home before his arrival. With message, history reaches. With history, feelings; and with feelings, life. Then, begins the accounting of life.
I detest people backbiting me. Sometimes I ponder if there wasn’t a tongue to talk about, there would be no need to listen to nonsense, and no one would misunderstand the things. Maybe life was full of happiness. People would bear less miseries. People might have burnt the sorrows of life when there was no tool available to burn the heart. And spring would compel to bloom for the rest of the life. Ha ha… ... I am so obsessed with such nonsense these days. I like to spread the aroma of life everywhere. I like to fly while tasting the pollen of dreams. I like to decorate someone's face with the brightest full moon. Like Mona Lisa, the portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, I like to lend mine handsome heart to others. I like to be a spark in everyone's eyes. I like to grow flowers in the garden of everyone's soul. I like ...
Tickets with the logo of the West Bus Dealers Association in hand, letters written like a doctor's prescription note, people slobbering like a flock of sheep, traffic police’s constant whistling in the unheard crowd, a thick cloud of smoke and dust - everything seemed unnatural. The city seemed to be giving birth to a dream, and it seemed as if I’m slowly being absorbed into the crowd.
The sleeping streets seemed bit anxious. The sky was shedding down the sorrows in rain. The nearby Jugal mountain was spreading its cold veil in the alleys of the city. It was becoming destiny to carry planetary clothes in a bag and wear them. Personally, I don't like this destiny at all.
The all-time busy road of Jadibuti, Koteshwor, Gaushala to New Bus Park also seemed to be very leisurely to some. Festivals therefore, appears much faster in the cosmopolis than in the hamlet. No matter how much the city was decorated with artificial lights, garlands and colors, most of the joyful hearts were adorned with the loving atmosphere of the village. I was wondering, how can city remain peaceful even in the midst of poverty, messed up modernity and sluggishness? How come the joy smiles itself in villages? I was reluctant to look for the answer that I have not found yet. Perhaps our society calls it ‘maturity’ to seek answers without asking anyone. However, my mother used to abate my self-confidence by telling it was nothing else but the influence of adolescence.
Oh, how thousands of thoughts hovered restlessly in an hour's time? I was shocked. By this time, the bus had turned inside the Gongabu Bus Terminal. It was 7 o'clock in the evening. I wanted to give farewell that Friday as soon as possible, but what to do – after all, one gets nothing more than the fate and prior than the time. The bus driver spent half an hour to bade farewell to the bus terminal that is occupied by lost faces, where words communicate more with money than the beautiful souls and which is always ready for bidding good-byes to city dwellers while approaching the festivals. It is not natural not to notice the passage of time when the mind is more emotional. I didn’t complain. My religiosity restricted me to hurt the feelings of others.
The vehicle overtook Dharke, tarnishing the city of pollution and dreams. The car began to sway like a snake on a rough road.
"West, West ... Butwal, Bhairahawa, Sunauli"
By this time, the sound had faded into thin air. Hindi item songs that evoke youthful minds were chosen by the co-driver. The invisible youthful minds were bustling more than the audio-visual. Two pair of freshly rolled eyes looked thirsty for romance in the last seat. Time was running out like the wheels of the vehicle. Probably some older people objected to the audio-visual content and demanded a typical Nepali song. The co-driver was compelled to satisfy their request. After that, Narayan Gopal joined the night along with others. At that moment, I realized that the terms - the new and the old - are defined by the situation and the mood of a person. The journey to my old home seemed new to me.
The darker the night, the more the siesta sets pressure on the eyelids. The same pressure must have caused me to fall into a deep sleep disregarding the immediate need of luxurious pillows and the bed. I slept soundly.
The next morning at Butwal was enough to state how quickly the long journey was over. When I reached home, all my pleasures were departed. The villagers had gathered in the courtyard of the house and some security personnel were also visible. Police uniform brought tsunami in my mind. I felt as if I was not in control of my own mind. Both legs and mind were shuddering. Even though the situation was difficult, I stepped on the yard of the house. Gathered people had grim and pale face. I noticed that something in the courtyard was covered with white cloth. I wanted to turn it around and reveal the secret. Trembling hands reached for one end of the white cloth. After that, my eyes could not believe what I saw. The flow of blood seemed to pause instantly. The heart more than body and self- confidence more than heart became punier. How could I believe that a little sister who used to call me “Dada” had passed away? How could those eyes, which had just seen the greenery of the 12th spring, suddenly close? No, I couldn't believe it.
The tears that were flowing from my eyes were asking series of questions. There was a tumult in my heart. Someone was trying to console me, soothe me. But no matter how much I was consoled, the truth can’t be altered - my sister Anamika would never come to fight with me again; She would never ever call me “Dada”. My sister Anamika was now gone forever. One of the policemen was narrating about the incident that happened. His words sounded very onerous to me. "Your sister appears to have died after the rape attempt." This sentence of his transformed me to a cold corpse literally. I felt like I had fallen off a cliff. I thought the whole sky came up and lightning struck me. He was saying that the rest will be acknowledged only after investigation. I could not stop the impulse of my heart by remembering that unidentified bastard. I screamed loudly.
I was shocked when the co-driver turned on the lights. Everyone started staring at me. What a nightmare I had! I looked at the clock - it was 3 in the morning. People generally believe that the morning dream is supposed to be befall in real life. The whole body started shivering. I felt sorry for waking up the co-passengers from their sound sleep. But more than anything else, the chimera blew my mind. Perhaps an adult mind thinks a lot and dreams appear to represent those dreadful somersaulting thoughts.
I wanted to turn on the sleeping mobile in my pocket. When I turned it on, I saw five missed calls from my brother, eight from my sister-in-law and two from my uncle. I don't know how I missed those fifteen calls. However, I didn't care them thinking that those calls were just to get information regarding my location. Then I connected the earphones and turned on the radio to listen to the news. While the song was playing, the news of 4 am broadcasted on the radio - “The honorable Prime Minister is going to address the nation today”, “the unclaimed body in Chitwan was recovered after the rape and murder of 12-year-old Anamika, a resident of Butwal” ….
I pinched myself, wondering if it was a dream. I felt pain, more in my heart than the place where I’d pinched. The tears that rolled anonymously from my eyes had made me feel cold on my hands. The co-driver had been watching me for some time. When he saw me sobbing, he asked, "Oh brother, did you have another 'serious' dream? You started sniveling! What a 'psycho' man you are!" Listening to him, I thought to myself – “Yes, I have become a ‘psycho’ losing all my consciousness”.
After hearing this story of mine, person who looked like a doctor stepped out from a room saying "crazy". I thought he was crazy more than I was and laughed heartily. No idea what the doctor whispered to my brother and sister-in-law outside my room, surrounded by iron-bars. They came back nearby me with rolling tears down their cheeks. And all of a sudden, a bunch of 'lunatics' started tying my hands and feet, informing me to proceed for an "electric-treatment". At that very moment, I lost all my sense, I lost all my advertence.






Publisher :
Nepali KalaSahitya Dot Com Pratisthan

Distinct Advisor :
SP Koirala

Advisors :
Umesh Shrestha
Mohan Bdr. Kayastha
Radheshyam Lekali
Yograj Gautam
Dr. Hari Prasad (Manasagni)
Dr. Badri Pokhrel
Yogendra Kumar Karki
Rajendra Shalabh
Kapil Dev Thapa
Samir Jung Shah
Advisor Editor :
Rajeshwor Karki

Chief Editor :
Momila Joshi

Transcreator :
Mahesh Paudyal 'Prarambha'
Kumar Nagarkoti
Suresh Hachekali
Keshab Sigdel


Website Developer:
Shailendra Adhikari
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